


Contingency Plans

by linndechir



Category: Fast & Furious 6 (2013), Fast and the Furious Series, Furious 7 (2015)
Genre: Backstory, Bruises, M/M, Murder, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-22 21:10:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8301196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: "They felt Shaw was a necessary evil until eventually, they decided he was unnecessary. The powers that be felt that he knew just a little bit too much. So they sent in 20 elite operatives to retire him." - "And they missed."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fallencrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallencrest/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [[授翻]Contingency Plans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11426922) by [deeanne26](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deeanne26/pseuds/deeanne26)



The hotel was nicer than what anyone with their salary could reasonably afford, but not nice enough to attract any undue attention, so nobody gave Owen even a glance when he slipped in through the back entrance after dark. He'd found an unmarked hotel key card with a small note in his room when he'd got back from a training exercise that afternoon. The note only contained an address and a room number, printed neatly, no distinct personal handwriting, but there weren't that many people in the world who'd want to meet Owen in secret, and even fewer who could break into an army base unnoticed to leave the key card there.

He knocked before he entered the hotel room – never a good idea to startle a man on the run – then took care to lock the door behind himself. The suite wasn't quite dark, the curtains were drawn, but enough light from street lamps and the full moon fell in through the cracks to illuminate the room. 

Deckard was sitting in a comfortable armchair, carefully moved away from the windows, eyes on the door and his fingers curled around a gun on the armrest, but otherwise looking more relaxed than any man in his current situation had any right to.

Even knowing all along that it must have been Deckard who had called him here, Owen felt a knot at the base of his spine dissolve. He hadn't realised until now just how tense he'd been for days.

“You shouldn't be here,” he said. Here, in a hotel not fifty miles from the next army base, here in the country, here on the same bloody continent. Any sane man would be hiding on a remote island that had no extradition treaty with the UK, working on faking his own death. Deckard wasn't insane, of course. He was simply above the petty considerations of normal men.

He was wearing a black suit, tailored, definitely too nice, too, but then he'd been doing jobs on the side for years now. As they rose through the ranks, Owen had developed an accent that made him fit in with the other officers, and Deckard had developed a taste for good wine and expensive suits. Owen knew that wasn't why he'd started branching out, though. The money was a perk, but the real reason had been a mixture of pride and boredom. You couldn't train a man to be the world's most dangerous assassin and then expect him to be nothing but a loyal dog.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Deckard said as he got up, leaving the gun on the armrest. There were just a few steps between them now; they hadn't been this close in months. Since last July, to be precise, Owen had been on sick leave with a bad burn on his hand and forearm, Deckard had been in the country for once and dropped by. They hadn't talked much, then. It had been a sweltering hot night, far hotter than English summers had any right to be. Owen could still feel that same heat in his bones now.

“I thought you were going to tell me you didn't need it,” Owen said. Humbleness had never been Deckard's strong suit, and he'd always resented any implication that he might need help for anything, but now he merely shrugged. He looked the same as always, he hadn't changed much in the past ten years, hadn't really changed at all since he'd shaved off his hair. 

“I would have appreciated more details, but I suppose they managed to keep those under wrap. How did you even know?” Deckard asked.

“It was just a matter of time, so I kept an eye and an ear open. Someone always talks,” Owen said. “If they'd wanted to make sure nobody knew they were planning to take out one of their own, they should have asked the Americans for help, but they were too proud for that.”

Deckard bared his teeth in something that resembled a smile, and Owen wasn't sure if the idea of killing an entire American unit amused him more, or if he simply would have loved to see his former superior officers explain to the Americans how that one rogue soldier they had been asked to take out had decimated an entire unit.

Another step was all Deckard needed to be in Owen's space, not threatening, not touching, but neither had ever really been necessary to make the hairs on Owen's arm stand up. Owen was still wearing his jacket and Deckard's breath was too warm on his face.

“Have they talked to you?” Deckard asked quietly.

“No. Officially nothing happened, certainly nothing I knew about.” 

His brother had always had an imposing physical presence, or maybe it was just that Owen always sensed him when he was near. As a child he'd wake up in the dark and just know that Deckard had gone to bed in their shared room, even when he couldn't hear him. When he'd started fights behind the school, part of him had always known whether Deckard was around to break a nose or a hand and then grab Owen's arm with blood on his fingers to drag him home. Something prickled at the base of his spine whenever his brother was near, and he could feel that same tension running through him now.

“If they had got me, they would have told you I'd been killed on a mission,” Deckard said. The words made Owen tense up with an anger he hadn't expected – he wasn't sure if it was the idea of that lie that made him so furious, or just imagining his brother dead. “But since I'm still alive …”

“Are you saying I should watch my back?” It wasn't that Owen hadn't considered it – considering all options and having a contingency plan for every one of them was the reason he was so good at his job. He knew their superiors didn't _want_ him dead, or they would have sent someone after him at the same time they went after Deckard, but it was quite another thing now that they'd made such a spectacular mess out of killing his brother.

Deckard shifted his weight from one foot to the other, didn't even move closer as such, but Owen still made a small step backwards, yielding to the implied movement, and then again until he found himself with his back pressed against the nearest wall, Deckard crowding him against it and still, still not touching him, not saying anything either.

“I thought I had you for that,” Owen pressed on. He could smell him, a faint sheen of fresh sweat, a new aftershave he hadn't used yet the last time they'd seen each other. He hadn't relied on Deckard to fight his battles for over ten years now, but he still enjoyed the thought of it, of walking through life with a smile on his face while his brother put a knife in the throat of anyone who even looked at Owen the wrong way. Deckard was frowning at him; he'd always accused Owen of not taking things quite seriously enough. “I have my contingency plans, D, just like you have yours. I can be out of here in an hour if I have to.”

They'd talked about those plans, sometimes, about fake passports and money stowed away in case they ever needed to disappear, or simply wanted to – they'd never had any illusions about what they were to their employers, expendable assets, and neither of them had ever genuinely expected to end their lives in faithful service to Queen and Country. They'd briefly talked about them the last time they'd seen each other, too, in the dark on that too hot summer night – none of this had come as a surprise, after all, not when Deckard knew more dirty secrets than any government could really be comfortable with, not when Deckard's very existence had made their superiors nervous for years. It had been too hot to fuck that night, too hot to touch except for Deckard's hand on Owen's chest, on his throat, just resting there like that was something brothers did. Deckard hadn't touched him like he'd wanted to, but like he needed to, like he'd gone too long without Owen's skin under his, even if it was just in one place.

“I know you do,” Deckard finally said. Some years ago Owen would have looked for a dismissive, indulging tone in his voice, left over from the days when Deckard did have to watch his little brother's back, but Owen had put a stop to that the first time he'd killed a man in front of Deckard. There hadn't even been a good reason for it, he'd just been making a point. Some bloke he'd picked up, and knowing that Deckard was in town had excited him more than the prospect of actually sleeping with him. So he'd let himself get sucked off, looking down at the small red laser dot on his chest – an aid Deckard didn't need, not at this distance, it was only there to let Owen know he was watching – and after he'd come into the stranger's mouth, he'd reached down and broken his neck. Deckard would have killed him anyway for the crime of touching something he considered his, it was a nice change to do it himself for once. He hadn't seen the look on Deckard's face when he'd dropped the lifeless body to the floor, but he could imagine it easy enough – surprise turning into dark, amused approval. His brother had always liked him best when Owen was at his worst, his meanest, his pettiest even.

“You didn't just come here to tell me that,” Owen said. Even if Deckard had thought he'd needed the warning, there were a dozen other ways he could have contacted him, just like Owen had found a way of warning Deckard when he was at the other end of the world.

“No,” and then Deckard's hand was on his throat, a light touch that barely qualified as a threat even as he stepped closer. Owen had never allowed himself to even consider the possibility that the operatives sent after his brother might be successful. It had of course been a possible, perhaps even a likely outcome – Deckard was the best at what he did, but the people who'd wanted him dead were the same people who had trained him, the same people who had realised that he was a little _too_ good at his job, and those people wouldn't have underestimated him. And yet Owen had still assumed from the start that Deckard would come out of this on top.

“How many men did they send after you?” he asked, his voice dropping low in the dark, just breaching the few inches between them. Deckard was easily caging him against the wall, fingers curled around his throat, the other hand resting on the wall next to Owen's head.

“Twenty,” Deckard replied just as softly. His voice got rougher when he whispered, words that were for Owen's ears alone. “They sent in five of them first, probably hoping to catch me off guard and get it done quietly. Sent in a whole troop afterwards when I killed the first five.”

Owen drew in a slow breath, tried to suppress the shudder that went up his spine. He'd seen Deckard kill, not half as often as he would have liked to, but often enough to know how easy it came to him. He killed calmly, efficiently, like he didn't enjoy it, but Owen knew that he did, knew how much he loved the simple beauty of it.

“Did you shoot them?” He probably only imagined the calloused ridge on Deckard's trigger finger where it pressed against his pulse point, but he didn't imagine the heat of his body, his slow breaths, and then the lightest brush of Deckard's cheek against his, evening stubble rasping over Owen's chin.

“Some of them,” he said. His index finger tapped a few times against Owen's neck before he tightened his grip, thumb pressing against Owen's jaw to force his head back. “A few broken necks, a few smashed in heads, the usual.”

Owen closed his eyes, picture Deckard waiting for them with the quiet patience of a predator, moving through their ranks like a shadow, killing with such relaxed ease, like his hands had been made for nothing but that. His skin burnt where Deckard touched him, his wrists burnt when he thought of every time Deckard had held him down after one of their fights, of every bruise his brother's fists had left on his body over the years.

“Anyone I know?” Owen asked, so quietly he could barely hear himself, couldn't hear anything in the deafening silence but his own pulse picking up under Deckard's touch, Deckard's calm breath brushing over his cheek.

“A few of them, I think,” and Deckard whispered the names against his cheek, most of them men Owen only knew fleetingly, but there were a few he had worked with, one had even been on his team for a while, a clever boy with the brightest, bluest eyes, and Owen's breath caught when he thought of the light leaving them when Deckard broke his neck.

Deckard's right hand kept his neck pinned to the wall, kept his throat bared, and when he'd breathed the last name against Owen's jaw he let his teeth graze over it, down to his chin before he finally kissed him, so rough and hard it took the breath from Owen's lungs when Deckard's hand didn't.

Owen had fucked more people than he cared to count over the years, men and women alike, and none of them had ever got him as hard as quickly as his brother did, the growl of his voice against his neck, the scratch of his stubble, the hand that wasted no time before it cupped Owen through his slacks and squeezed so firmly it hurt. He pulled him close, Deckard as solid and heavy against him as the wall at his back, and no less hard.

“Why did you come back?” he asked against Deckard's lips the moment he had enough breath to say anything at all. It might not have been insane, considering that Deckard could be all but a ghost if he wanted to, but it was still irrational, reckless, everything Deckard wasn't.

Rather than replying Deckard pushed him hard into the wall and sank to his knees, one hand on Owen's hip pinning him against the wall just like he had before while holding on to his throat, the other undoing his belt.

Deckard's stubble was too rough on Owen's sensitive skin when he rubbed his cheek against his cock; his idea of teasing had never come without a bit of pain, without a firm grip on Owen's balls. His thumb brushed lightly over the base of Owen's cock, that touch incongruously gentle, and Owen was grateful for the wall at his back.

Owen reached down to grab his chin, let his thumb touch the edge of Deckard's smirk. His brother liked to hold his mouth open sometimes, thumb jammed between Owen's teeth like he had to force him, but Owen doubted it'd go over well if he tried the same with Deckard. Deckard had the oddest ideas about what he let his little brother do, for someone who let said little brother fuck his mouth and punch him in the face, but Owen had no complaints, not when all he had to do was nudge Deckard's lips with the tip of his cock and Deckard opened up, wrapped his lips around him like he was going to swallow him whole and not let go until he was done with him.

And Owen could probably get better blowjobs in every gay bar in the country, but fuck if he cared about that when he could have Deckard on his knees, one hand on his chin and the other on the back of his neck, Deckard who'd never kneel for anyone else, Deckard who'd rip any other man's balls off, Deckard whose usual idea of sex was shoving someone's face into the pillows so he wouldn't have to hear them when he fucked them bloody. Deckard had killed a dozen people for no other reason than because Owen had let them touch him, but Owen could barely even fathom what he'd do to anyone who'd somehow manage to get Deckard to blow them. Cutting their cock off would only be the start of it.

Deckard made himself choke on Owen and still kept going with that stubborn determination of his, not that Owen would have let him pull back, his hands leaving more bruises on his brother's neck, because if anyone should get to mark him up, it was him.

It didn't take much of that for Owen to come, not as keyed up as he already was, not when it had been so goddamn long since Deckard had touched him at all. He didn't let go of Deckard's neck until his brother had swallowed every last drop, but then Deckard rarely made a mess of this. Owen only tried for a second or two to stay on his feet before he let himself slide down the wall, joining Deckard on the floor. He still had his hand on the back of his brother's neck, pulled him close until Deckard's forehead touched his, breathed him in for a minute or two.

Deckard could be inhumanly patient when he lay in wait, could be just as patient when it came to this – he'd always enjoyed waiting for Owen to lose his composure and take what he want, or maybe he just enjoyed making Owen ask for anything instead of offering it first. And he waited even now, waited until Owen caught his breath and pushed the suit jacket of his brother's shoulders, unbuttoned his shirt next – and stopped when he saw dark, purple bruises over Deckard's ribs. Even in the half-dark it was obvious that they were only a heartbeat away from a serious injury, and Owen splayed his fingers over them lightly.

“Good thing I warned you, hm?” he said, less smugly than he'd wanted to, when all it would have taken was one of those twenty men his brother had killed getting lucky, aiming a little better, moving a little faster. He'd been in enough fights to know what a thin line lay between life and death, how little it took sometimes to defeat even the most competent opponent. He dug his fingers harder into Deckard's side until a pained groan left his brother's lips. Part of him had always loved the scars on his brother's skin, those reminders that even Deckard wasn't infallible, untouchable, but now he wanted to rip the marred skin off him and bury his hands in the steel of his muscles.

He tasted himself on Deckard's lips when they kissed again, a harsh thing that lacked any tenderness just like Owen's hands didn't bother with gentleness when his fingers opened Deckard's fly to curl around his cock. Deckard moaned almost soundlessly against his lips, as always so restrained right up to the point where his control shattered.

Owen kept his grip so tight it must have been uncomfortable even as it gave Deckard what he needed, but his brother didn't complain, he only held on to the back of Owen's neck, fingers ineffectively trying to grab Owen's short hair. There was no finesse in any of this, not in the way Owen got him off, not in the way he dug finger-shaped bruises into Deckard's already battered side, not in the way Deckard kissed him like he was trying to devour him whole. They'd been apart for too long, and that always left them with the raw, angry need of two animals clawing their way into each other. Owen swallowed his brother's moans when he came over his hand, and they stayed there sitting on the floor, breathless and shaking.

Minutes passed in silence; the sounds of nearby cars on the road hollow, as if they were far away; the only thing that felt real was Deckard's breathing against his ear, the smell of his sweat and his come, the familiar shape of his skull under Owen's hand.

“Why are you here?” Owen asked again into the heavy silence. Deckard could have just sent him a message from the other end of the world to let him know he was all right, it would have been enough. Deckard shrugged like this was nothing.

“Because I know what you want, little brother,” he said eventually. It was a bullshit answer, because Owen always wanted him, he'd have Deckard with him every damn night if that didn't also mean having to be around him every single day. But Owen realised that what Deckard was saying was that he knew Owen had needed to see him, now more than usual – he'd known that even when Owen himself had barely let himself think about it, when he'd barely even acknowledged the way his skin had crawled with uncertainty.

And it really had been too long if that surprised Owen, that Deckard knew him better than he knew himself, that Deckard risked so much just to do him a useless, unnecessary favour.

“When are you leaving?” he said, because they didn't talk about any of the things Deckard did for him. There had never been a need for that.

“In the morning.” 

Owen didn't ask him where he was going, it didn't matter. He doubted Deckard was going to stay in one place for long. The way things were looking, he doubted _he_ was going to stay in one place for long. Deckard had been right – it would have been one thing for the army to keep him in their service after successfully killing his brother, it was another when Deckard was out there to tell Owen that their superiors had turned on him. Owen had always been a model officer, reliable, good at convincing people he was loyal, but even real loyalty had limits, and trying to eliminate a man's brother usually went far beyond those. No, he'd entered the army in Deckard's footsteps, and he'd be leaving it not soon after him, too.

“You could come with me now,” Deckard said as if he'd read his mind. His fingers were rubbing the base of Owen's neck, the same warm, firm touch of their childhood, of evenings in front of the TV, of walks home after another one of Owen's fights that Deckard finished for him – half protective, half possessive. 

Owen only had to think about it for a few moments before he shook his head, but he didn't move away. His hands were still on Deckard's bruised sides.

“I'll leave when I'm ready. Even if they want to get rid of me, they're not going to try and kill me on base.” He ran his fingers over Deckard's bare chest, up to his collarbones, then to his neck, but he didn't mirror Deckard's grip from earlier that night, just let his hand rest against the side of his neck. 

“I'll come find you,” he said. That too was unnecessary. Owen's contingency plans were his own, they didn't include his brother any more than Deckard's included his. They'd both had their own ideas of where to go once the army was done with them, once they were done with the army. And yet neither of them liked going his separate way for too long. It made Owen irritable and Deckard murderous, and sooner or later it only ended with Deckard finding him, watching him through hotel windows, sometimes all the way through and sometimes interrupting him earlier; it ended with some hapless bastard dead on the floor and Deckard's blood-smeared hands wrestling Owen to the ground before he fucked him. 

It wasn't bad, of course, but there was really no need why he should go without seeing his brother for a year just to get it. Owen liked to think they'd grown out of those games, or at least out of needing them.

So he said, “I'll come find you,” and Deckard promised he'd let him.


End file.
